


Golden Boy

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Creepy Brock Rumlow, Domination, M/M, Paperwork, Sub Steve Rogers, Urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 18:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8812177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: If the tags and the title don't tip you off, there's no hope for you. But here it is anyway: Brock likes humiliating Steve.





	

It’s the bureaucracy, more than anything, which drives Steve nuts about the future. Everyone’s got to sign for everything, all the time. There are so many numbers and passcodes and ID tags and chips and keys for things. So much checking files in and out, so many hours of discussion about every decision. So many  _ meetings _ . Steve deeply dislikes meetings. Honestly, most of them are a waste of time for him; he’s a field tactician, not a field marshal. When he’s not flinging a shield around, his position is largely ceremonial. SHIELD trots him out for events but there’s only so many times he can shake hands, smile and give a boilerplate speech about freedom. Meetings are how they justify his full-time salary, apparently. He’s not usually asked for his opinion, and, if he ventures one, nobody seems much inclined to listen. He can’t escape; he just has to sit there and listen and shut up.

Today in particular is agony. It’s a two-hour meeting about STRIKE team field supply, a topic which could have been specifically designed to make Steve want to pass out from boredom. There’s a level 6 administrative supervisor, Welch, at the head of the table, and four more STRIKE leads sitting around the other end. Worse, Brock Rumlow’s here. Rumlow is— it’s complicated. He confuses Steve. The big, white smile when he says something mean. The way he’ll bring Steve a coffee and then laugh at him for adding sugar. The complicated tangle of their lives now that they’ve started jerking each other off in the showers. Rumlow seems to like that he mixes Steve up. Steve likes that Rumlow seems into him. It doesn’t feel comfortable, though. It doesn’t feel right. Rumlow’s sitting opposite him, rolling his pen over and over the ball of his thumb. He looks relaxed, hiding his boredom well, interjecting when he has something to say. Meanwhile, Steve needs to piss desperately. Rumlow had brought him a tall, milky coffee when he arrived, balanced atop his own usual espresso. Drinking it at the start of a meeting had been a bad idea.

He shifts in his seat, trying to relieve the pressure of his wide belt on his bladder. The uniform is hell to wriggle out of in the bathroom and hell to sit in for any length of time. 

‘Do you feel that you have something to add, Captain?’ Welch asks frostily. He doesn’t like Steve one bit – thinks he’s a decoration, a figurehead with no real value.

‘No,’ Steve mutters, flushing. Rumlow grins, a vicious flash of teeth, and pops the cap off a bottle of water. He takes a long drink and sits back in his chair, idly swirling the water round and round.  _ Don’t look at it, don’t think about it _ , Steve thinks frantically. 

‘We should discuss water purification, too,’ Rumlow says as Welch wraps up his soliloquy about hydrolyte powders. ‘We’ve got some work to do in South America. Wouldn’t want my boys caught short.’

‘Next on the list,’ confirms Welch and off they go, talking about litres and gallons, water bottles and tanks, reservoirs and streams and lakes and desalination and oh, God, Steve is dying, his belly aching. He crosses his legs and bangs his right knee on the underside of the table. Welch stares at him like he’s a misbehaving child.  _ You’re an adult _ , Steve tells himself,  _ just excuse yourself _ . He imagines admitting to Welch that he needs the bathroom.

Oh, they’re almost finished. Oh, thank the good Lord. Around him, everyone’s shuffling papers together and Welch is saying something to the room. Steve leaps to his feet so fast that everybody turns to stare at him and he’s blushing again, he knows it, but now it’s just out of here, two lefts, a jog down the stairs and the men’s room is right opposite the stairwell. He leaves just ahead of Rumlow.

‘Hey, Cap!’ Rumlow says to him, catching up and grabbing his elbow. ‘I just need a quick word with you about how much water you drink in a day.’ He smiles, radiant and utterly evil, tugs Steve’s elbow towards a dusty little filing room at the end of the hall. 

‘No, I—’ Steve begins, but Welch overhears and snorts with derision.

‘For Christ’s sake, man, at least make the effort to understand your job.’ 

Rumlow’s eyes flash with delight and he hauls Steve into the filing room, closes the door and pushes him up against a row of cabinets.

‘You looked uncomfortable in there,’ he says, rubbing his thigh between Steve’s legs. ‘Getting hot and bothered, Cap? Need a little light relief?‘

‘No,’ begins Steve once again, but it’s futile. He’s not hard, Rumlow must be able to feel that, and so he knows, he  _ knows _ , he’s just being mean. He’s a bully; Steve just has to hold out, to ignore him, and he’ll leave quicker.

‘C’mon,’ Rumlow taunts, ‘you’re no fun.’ He tugs the little fastener on Steve’s uniform neck, slides down the concealed zip. His big, rough hand worms inside, across Steve’s chest and to a nipple.

‘No,’ gasps Steve, ‘no, don’t—’ and then Rumlow pinches his nipple hard and Steve twitches with pleasure and loses it, loses control, starts pissing with a moan of relief. The pressure on his stomach abruptly releases and he wets himself. It trickles hot down his leg, down his uniform pants and towards his boot and he looks down in horror and watches a dark patch spread across the bright blue fabric. 

‘Uh, yeah,’ Rumlow says, fumbling his zip open and grabbing his cock. He watches Steve shame himself, jerks himself off hard and efficient. Steve gives a little shiver as his bladder finishes emptying and moans in horror as he thinks about how far away the locker rooms are. ‘Look at you,’ says Rumlow, crowding up against him, ‘dirty little bitch, pissing in your pants. Look at that.’ Hus knuckles rub up against Steve’s wet thigh as he frantically jacks his cock. ‘Walk back to the locker room with a wet uniform. Violates the stars and stripes, that does. Aww, yeah, fuckin’—’ Rumlow shuts his eyes and grits his teeth when he comes, like always. He spurts over Steve’s hip and Steve can only watch, his hands hovering away from the cabinets, as Rumlow carefully wipes his spunk on the red and white stripes. 

‘Oh,’ Steve says in despair, staring at his ruined uniform, ‘oh no.’

‘Look at you,’ repeats Rumlow. ‘SHIELD’s little golden boy.’ 


End file.
